Gerrard raised his arms in the Benalish signal for alliance and parley. The ballistae and crossbows remained trained on the smoldering ship.

"Peace!" Gerrard shouted in a voice that sounded like war.

With massive grace, the ship edged out over the elegant turrets of Benalia City. Pennants snapped above hipped gables. Among colonnades of limestone stood gaping dignitaries, their robes hanging in mute amazement from their arms. The whole city blinked in wonder and a little fear.

Gerrard drew a deep breath and listened for the sound of hull-staving bolts. No such traumas came from beyond, but from within… a great blast from the engine room sent a jet of fire out of the manifolds.

Folk in the marketplace below shouted. A single anxious quarrel leaped up. It cracked off the rail beside Gerrard and tumbled away. It was the only shot fired. The other archers held their attacks, and the white-garbed civilians in the marketplace held their breaths.

Weatherlight had found her haven, uneasy though it was. Landing spines jutted from her hull and reached for the cobbled courtyard. She cast a deep shadow over the stones. An apple seller scrambled to wheel her cart out of the way. Apples hopped off the shuddering conveyance like children leaping from a hay wagon.

The courtyard, once thronging with buyers and sellers, was now empty of everyone except a single, wizened madman. Shabby in gray robes, he had been proclaiming death from the skies. The great, smoky airship nicely fulfilled his prophecies. That was not why he remained. Eyes wrapped in a kerchief, the blind man simply did not realize Weatherlight was about to settle atop him.

From beneath a broad-brimmed hat, the man continued his lament, "… monsters more hideous than creatures in a child's nightmare. Ancient, evil, twisted, bent on destroying all that is fair and beautiful. They think this world is theirs. They think we are the usurpers. They want to kill us, every last one. They think they save us, but they will kill the weakest and enslave the strongest and change us into monsters. They will change you! And you! And you!" The blind man pointed accusingly. His gnarled fingers failed to indicate anyone in the empty courtyard. "Arm yourselves, Benalia! Arm yourselves! Each of us shall have to fight, even the aged, the blind, the mad-and I am all three!" He laughed dryly, the sound ending in a hacking cough.

Only then did the blind man notice the huge ship, hissing as it settled on its landing spines. He didn't seem to hear it but rather to feel the sudden shade it cast on his shoulders. A look of puzzlement puckered his old lips. The hull gently shoved his back. He staggered forward as the ship stopped just short of crushing him.

Turning angrily, the old man pushed at the side of the ship. "Watch your wagon, good sir! Give me room!"

Grim-faced soldiers marched up in a line behind the man. Boots cracked smartly against the stones. Cocked crossbows set an uneasy whine in the air.

The blind seer turned, lips white with anger. "What is this? You come to haul me away? My warnings are disbelieved? The truth teller goes to prison?" He held out his arms in melodramatic surrender.

The captain of the guard glared past the madman to the rail of the airship. "Ho, there! Give account! Who are you, and what is this… thing? What is your purpose?"

A wry laugh came from above. Gerrard set one booted foot on the rail, leaned on his knee, and smiled. "I am Gerrard Capashen, scion of the first house." He rolled up his left sleeve, displaying the Capashen tattoo-a tower with seven windows. "I learned to fight there, in the lower yard, and I learned to tryst there, in the grotto. This is Weatherlight, ancient airship and Benalia's greatest defender. My purpose is to defend you in the coming war."

"Defend us? Against whom?" asked the guard captain.

"The monsters from the skies!" the blind man cried. "I have told you over and over, but you will not believe."

"Shut up, old man," the guard advised.

Gerrard snorted. "He's right, in fact. This blind man does see something. Yes, there is an invasion underway- beasts falling on us from the skies. Return to your homes. Arm yourselves. Every house must become a fortification, every person a warrior."

The guard captain spat into the dirt. He glanced at the blind seer. "Is this sky-flying lunatic your son?"

Patting Weatherlight's hull, the wizened man said, "Well, why not?"

"I demand an audience with the chief of the Capashen Clan. I demand to address the chiefs of the seven clans."

"All right, come down here, Gerrard Capashen," the guard captain said, motioning. "And bring your command crew."

Gerrard called into the speaking tube, summoning his crew. Sisay, Hanna, and the others left their posts, heading fore.

"Make it fast," the guard captain barked.

A line snaked down from the rail. Gerrard slid easily down it. Tahngarth, Sisay, Orim, and Hanna followed quickly afterward.

"Don't forget Squee!" came a call from above. The green fellow followed his comrades down.

"We won't forget you," the guard captain promised as his men seized Gerrard.

Commander Capashen reached for his sword, but already it was raked from its scabbard. He tried to drag loose his thigh daggers, but three men held each of his arms. Next moment, irons clapped in place, and he was driven to his knees.

Sisay, Hanna, and Orim were similarly overwhelmed.

Tahngarth hurled back the men that swarmed him. He drew a curve-bladed striva from his shoulder harness and swung it around him, clearing space.

Beneath the leaping blade darted Squee, who ran headlong into the minotaur's leg and clung there piteously. Tahngarth roared, shaking off the clinging creature. Gathering his courage, Squee turned and held up his hands in a pale imitation of a martial master. He even managed a small roar of his own.

The minotaur kept the ship to his back as he eyed the soldiers. "What is the meaning of this?"

The guard captain rubbed a clean-shaven chin. He seemed to take Tahngarth's measure. "This man here is a deserter from the army of Benalia. I am taking him prisoner. Perhaps deserters are not dishonored among minotaurs."

A hissing growl was Tahngarth's only response.

"Then surely you will not oppose the rightful arrest of this man."

"What of the others?" Tahngarth rumbled.

"Would your… people allow a fully manned warship to remain in the center of one of your cities?"

Tahngarth changed the subject. "My commander speaks the truth of the coming invasion. We have fought these beasts. You must listen to him."

"We will determine that. Gerrard Capashen will have his audience with his clan chief, but until then, he and his crew will wait in safety."

The white cast of Tahngarth's knuckles on the striva handles told of his mood.

Gerrard nodded to him. "Tahngarth, please. These are my people. You can't fight them. We'll sort this out, and I'll owe you." "You bet you will," said the minotaur as he surrendered his striva and submitted his wrists to be shackled.

"Squee surrenders too," announced the goblin, lifting his hands and falling to his knees. Benalish soldiers chained him and then ascended to round up the rest of the crew.

The blind seer growled as his own shackles clicked into place.

"At least I'll have some company, for a change."

The Benalish military brig had the same grand reserve as the city above-slim but strong bars, efficiently arranged cells, guards as decorous as statues. It was a familiar place for Gerrard. The city had taught him to fight and tryst and defy authority. It also taught him the consequences.

"It's urgent you deliver my message to Chief Raddeus!" Gerrard demanded.